


Gerome Is Not (Do You Hear Me? Not!) Secretly Crying Under His Mask

by AlphaStarr



Series: In Which Gerome Is Secretly Crying Under His Mask [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Gerome Is Bad At Words, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Inigo Buys Too Many Handkerchiefs, Innuendo, M/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3888319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Listen," Gerome shot him a frown. "I'm not moving this wyvern-sized sweater somewhere else so you can have your 'nightly ritual.'"</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which half of the army's marriages are a sham, Inigo is a terrible tentmate, and Gerome is NOT secretly crying under his mask (... maybe). Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3544184">Gerome's No Good, Very Bad Day</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gerome Is Not (Do You Hear Me? Not!) Secretly Crying Under His Mask

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this fic is Gerome/Inigo... but it _does_ start out as versebuilding. As usual, [Milo](http://equiuszahhax.tumblr.com) deserves credit for sitting through me talking about this for 3+ hours.

In the end, really, it was Priam's fault.

Before his band of followers had joined the Shepherds, there were always plenty of tents to go around. Unfortunately, the vast majority of them saw the night and the open air as another enemy to fight, and even in the winter, they dripped with soldiers' machismo and refused to so much as build a lean-to, especially if there were so few tents to spare. After all, weren't they the toughest of the tough? Certainly they could go without something as superfluous as a tent, and if they woke up with frost in their beards and a windburn then they were all the stronger for it, right?

"Are they trying to freeze to death?" hissed Hecarim, slamming his book of strategies down before Chrom. His normally-tidy black hair flew from its normal ponytail, a product of northern Valm's winter.

"Well, I, uh," Chrom jumped at the loud noise. He scratched his cheek in confusion, "Maybe?"

Shivana, as polished as always, casually picked a ball of lint off the sleeve her tactician's robe, "They're their own people, 'Carim, and grown men. I think they can make their own decisions, even if we think they're stupid."

"Not," the shorter twin bit back. "When they're needlessly endangering their lives. If they want to die, then let them die in battle! Not from a foe as simple to conquer as frostbite, of all things. Plus, they're encouraging _Priam_ to join them."

"Wait, why--" Chrom tried to ask.

"Is _this_ what it's all about?" Shivana snorted, interrupting the prince. She gesticulated with a long-fingered hand, elegant but for the bitten nails. "So you're starting this 'campaign' to get soldiers into tents so that Priam will be willing to warm _yours_ \--"

"That's got nothing to do with it!" Hecarim interjected, red eyes narrowing at his sister. "It's inefficient, a waste of resources--"

"Hecarim and Priam, sitting in a tree," Shivana drawled with a flick of her silver ponytail, an obvious challenge to her brother.

Chrom merely sighed and settled into his chair, fiddling idly with a pen as he watched another tactician sibling squabble. Not like he hadn't had his fair share of squabbles with Lissa, he thought, looking across the table at his equally unattentive sister (she was not-so-subtly doodling on a scrap of parchment). But Hecarim and Shivana were an entirely different story-- in fact, it seemed like the only things they _could_ agree on were completely crazy strategies, like fighting in a volcano or setting the ocean on fire. Not like those same strategies hadn't saved their army a thousand times, but of all the things to agree on! Lucina sat on her father's left, quietly discussing something with Laurent, and Chrom thanked the gods above that she didn't fight with her brother like that, even if Inigo was completely her opposite.

Today's strategy briefing was next to unattended, as was the norm-- most of the Shepherds only attended sporadically, since they were often filled with Hecarim and Shivana's petty arguments. Most of the royal family was there of course, largely because they _had_ to be in order to set a good example... everyone, in fact, except Inigo. Even Owain was there, though he looked far more occupied with scrawling something in a notebook than doing any listening. The only ones who seemed to be paying any attention at all were Frederick (ever wary) and Olivia (observant in her quietness). One of Henry's bird friends was also in attendance, though he was mostly just eyeing Lucina's shiny tiara with fascination.

"--and it's hardly a crime to share a tent with one's husband!" Hecarim's voice rose into Chrom's train of thought.

"I believe we have a most expedient and prudent solution," Laurent stood abruptly, causing the whole room to look up and go silent. "If we consolidate our supplies and distribute tents in a likewise fashion to our forces, we should be able to provide domiciliatory accomodations to the new members of our army."

There was a moment of processing before everone cast their expectant gazes at Chrom.

"Um, yeah, what he said," Chrom nodded resolutely, relieved to at least end the argument even if he had no idea what Laurent had just said. Whatever it was, it was probably a good idea, and anyways, he was used to agreeing to stuff he didn't completely understand in council meetings back in Ylisstol. "Can we do that? I mean, is it possible?"

"Yes, milord, it is possible," Frederick nodded curtly. "How do you wish we go about it?"

"Uhhh," Chrom gave his daughter a look of despair. "I think I'd like to hear Lucina's advice first... after all, it's good to hear a second opinion before anything gets finalized."

Lucina gracefully swept in to save him from army politics, "Laurent is right, it's a good idea to re-assign tentmates and put more people in each tent. There are, after all, still people who have individual tents, and I think we'll be able to do it. I suggest, however, assigning tentmates by similar schedules and ages, as usual, but with deference to couples and families."

"That sounds good," Chrom nodded, relieved that Lucina was capable of explaining it to him in less-complicated words. "How many people will have to stay in each tent?"

Hecarim took that as his cue to flip through his book for the necessary numbers, "Three, perhaps. Certainly no fewer than two. It'll be spread fairly thinly, though, and crowded."

"I think I can draw up a temporary arrangement," Shivana began scribbling on a piece of paper. "Though I quite strongly recommend buying as many extra tents as possible the next time we're in a major town... we'll need about twenty to reduce sharing to two people."

"H-hey!" Lissa protested, having apparently realized what people were talking about doing. "But whatever happened to a sense of _privacy_?"

"Since when did you and Ricken start needing 'privacy'?" Chrom demanded, shocked at his little sister.

"I _am_ an adult, you know," Lissa huffed. "Besides, it's not even like that! Sometimes you just need a little _privacy_ to relax!"

Shivana subtly snorted beneath her hand. Chrom had to be the **only** member of the army who didn't know that Lissa only married Ricken to publicly cover up her relationship with Maribelle, and, vice versa, that it served as a cover for Ricken's own affections for Henry. Even in Ylisse, a fairly liberal country, it was hardly appropriate to make the people worry about whether their rulers would have heirs, and Chrom was so oblivious that even _she_ wasn't completely certain how Lucina and Inigo managed to get conceived.

Shivana and Hecarim exchanged a Look, and for once, they agreed on something: how was it posible for one man to be so _blind_?

"Doth I hear the sound of my mother in distress?" Owain suddenly looked up from being absorbed in his book, dropping it to the floor at the sound of Lissa's indignance. "Alas, woe am I, unable to help her!"

"It'll be all right," Shivana smirked knowingly. "If it really matters, I could just move Maribelle into your tent... she and Libra have been living in the medical tent, anyways, and I'm sure she'll have the discretion to give you some, ahem, 'privacy'... when you need it, of course."

"But not too much privacy," Chrom warned. Hecarim had to stifle a snort.

"I'll... I'll go collect the tents for redistribution, milord," Frederick stuttered, not entirely certain how to inform Chrom that Lissa's privacy was likely more endangered now than ever.

"Laurent and I will make sure word of the reassignment gets around by this evening," Lucina stood, preparing to leave. Henry's crow, which had been focused on her tiara, snapped out of its goldlust. "I'm sure that in our army, it'll be simple to let everyone know that they'll have a new roommate by the end of the day."

"We'll be certain to inform Cynthia first. With her exceptional pegasus movement, it'll be mere minutes until the whole camp knows," Laurent's mouth twitched upwards. He and Lucina departed, discussing the order in which they would find people to tell. Owain, once he realized the meeting was over, hurriedly re-gathered his notes and fled from the briefing.

"I suppose I'll be counting and re-distributing the tents," Hecarim grumbled, standing. He flicked Frederick's armor so that his immaculate nails made a dinging noise on the metal shell, "Come on. No time to waste."

"I'm... going to go see someone about a heal staff," Lissa made an excuse, trying to tamp down her giddy smile as she headed in the direction of the medical tent.

"Okay... looks like we're finished here?" Chrom cocked his head, baffled by the hasty exit.

"Um... though, Shivana, if you don't mind, um, I still have a question," Olivia quietly piped up, and the tactician looked in her direction. She'd been so quiet, she hadn't even known Olivia was there.

"All right, Olivia, what is it?" she smiled kindly at her.

"Um, what if we're happy with our current roommates? I mean," she lowered her voice. "I currently share a tent with Panne and I, um, really like it."

"You must, especially since you never moved into Chrom's tent, even after you were married," Shivana smirked and twirled a loose hair around her finger. "But you know, I was planning to have you and Chrom and Inigo share a tent, with preferences for family and all."

"NO!" Olivia squeaked, covering her mouth afterwards. Her face turned pink with embarrassment at how vehemently she protested it.

"Huh? Wait, what's wrong with that?" Chrom's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Oh, I guess she doesn't want to give up sleeping with Panne," Shivana replied offhandedly, watching Olivia's face grow redder.

"I- no, that's not it at all!" the dancer protested, casting nervous glances at her sweet (though sexually incompetent) husband. 

"No, it's okay, I wouldn't want to give up sharing a tent with Panne, either," Chrom smiled obliviously. "She's probably really warm to share a tent with, epecially with the Taguel thing and all."

"Um... right, warm. That's it," Olivia stuttered. "It's really cold in winter and her tent is always warm. But that's still not the reason! Inigo... well, he's always up really late. Later than anyone else. And Chrom's job is so important... I don't want his, er, _nightly activities_ , to disturb Chrom's rest."

"I'll see what I can do," Shivana shrugged, casually editing her list. "But no promises."

* * *

For the thousandth time that day, Gerome cursed whoever it was that created the tent issue, and double-damned whoever had decided to do something about it.

He, after all, had liked his tent just fine-- solitary, just the way he liked to live his life, and near where the animals were stabled so he could be near Minerva. It was hardly his business whether some random strangers from an entirely different time period were too unintelligent to know when they needed to find tents and shelter.

Gerome would have gladly given up his tent and slept outside, or curled up in the stables near Minerva, but Frederick... his Father-But-Not-Father would not yield, something about the pride of knights and soldiers alike being wounded if even one of then was proven strong enough to survive tentless, and how a thousand heal staves could not repair that injury. The sheer idiocy of Priam's men astounded him, but Gerome was good at nothing if not preventing idiots from dying left and right, and so he acquiesced.

That was before he discovered that his tentmate would be Inigo.

Inigo, the Prince of Ylisse.

Inigo, whose training regimen was so slack that he managed to miss _all three_ of Frederick's Fitness Hours.

Every day.

Inigo, the man who thought only of his next romantic encounter, never of anything productive.

And, perhaps most importantly, Inigo, who would probably pester him about being his wingman every night until they were no longer living in the same tent.

The Wyvern Knight was dreading the cohabitation. Inigo, after all, was the Prince of Ylisse-- hardly spoiled, given the circumstances of the future they came from, but most certainly working on it in this time. His purchases every time they reached a town with a market were nearly half soaps and perfumes and lotions and handkerchiefs, far more than any one man could make use of by himself. Gerome himself had no idea where the vast amount of money even came from, only that after every battle Inigo would come back with three or four bars of gold that he "found on the enemy." Even if the enemy was just a pack of Risen, who would naturally have no need for such funds.

Inigo smelled like desperation, everyone in camp with a nose could tell that. He wore entirely too much rose perfume, with undertones of musk and nutmeg that might have been all right if he didn't practically bathe in the stuff. Gerome's sleep was bad enough to begin with, and his nose particularly unused to such floral stenches... and that was before Inigo ever said or did anything.

"No," Gerome slammed open the flap to Shivana's tent. It didn't quite have the dramatic flair of slamming open a door, but it would be effective enough. "I'm not sharing a tent with Inigo."

"Um," the tactician reddened, trying futilely to cover her bare breasts. Sully, irate, thrust Shivana's robe back over her almost-entirely-nude body.

"Gods," Gerome covered the eyeholes of his mask with his hands and began to back away. "Sorry. Didn't mean to--"

"Fuckin' hell, kid, you've got some nerve barging in like that," the tactician's wife growled, pulling a spear from the side of their tent. "I'm going to give you three seconds to run."

Gerome ran away, faster than he'd ever run before, cheeks burning brightly beneath his mask.

"... maybe this wasn't the best idea," Shivana muttered, pulling her robe over her tall figure. "I'll... move Morrigan out of our tent... I can rearrange Brady and Laurent, I think."

"So... no end-of-privacy fuck?" Sully raised an eyebrow.

"But also no end of privacy," Shivana smirked. "So there's that."

* * *

 His best attempt to change his rooming assignment had failed spectacularly, Gerome thought. In retrospect, entering the tent of a married couple unannounced was probably not the smartest thing he'd ever done.

The fact of the matter was as it always had been, and always would be: he'd have to just accept his fate.

Trudging to the new location of his tent (still on the camp's outskirts, but too far from the stables for his liking), Gerome found that Inigo was already settled in, though the man himself wasn't there. Probably still trying to pick up girls at the town bar, Gerome thought, beginning to unpack his own belongings. He lit a lantern to provide sufficient light, surprised that Inigo's belongings weren't sprawled across his side of the tent as well. A genuine mess of perfume bottles (mostly empty), washed-but-not-folded clothes, and various shampoos littered the floor of Inigo's side, but Gerome was blissfully free to his own Spartan, mess-free side.

A tall, white stack caught his eye resting beside Inigo's bedroll as Gerome unrolled his own. With horror, Gerome realized that it was an entire pile of handkerchiefs. Well-raised he may have been, but as he eyed the massive stack of kerchiefs and the several empty bottles of lotion on the floor, well... Gerome was a teenaged boy once, too, and it wasn't hard to draw conclusions.

Hopefully, though, he wouldn't try to do anything with someone else in the same tent... right? Gerome cried a little bit on the inside. It was _Inigo_ , there was no telling what he'd do. Though he knew it was ultimately futile, Gerome laid down and tried to go to sleep on the off chance he'd be out by the time Inigo got back from whatever it was he was doing.

He'd been laying still nearly an hour by the time he began to hear the crunch of frost under boots, still nowhere close to sleep. Gerome quickly shut his eyes and evened out his breathing as best as he could, turning so that his back was facing Inigo's side of the tent. His mask pressed uncomfortably into his pillow, and Gerome realized he'd forgotten to take it off. Whoops, too late now.

A deep sigh came from the other side of the tent, one that Gerome wouldn't have guessed belonged to Inigo if he hadn't known that nobody else could be there. It was the mercenary's voice, most certainly, but far too haggard and weary for someone as careless as Inigo.

"Gods, I'm a mess," the prince muttered, so quietly that if Gerome _had_ been asleep, he wouldn't have woken. There was the quiet clink of Inigo's thin silver bracelets against each other as he lit a dim lantern.

Gerome watched Inigo's shadow lift a hand to run through his hair, burying his face in his hands afterwards to take a deep breath. Whoever had rejected him this time had done it thoroughly, Gerome thought.

There was the a rustle as Inigo shed his daywear and donned his nightclothes. Though he could still see his tentmate's shadow in the flickering light, Gerome politely closed his eyes and focused on appearing to be as asleep as possible. He couldn't deal with a post-rejection Inigo, not right now. The Wyvern Knight was certain that he'd be roped into another terrible evening of serving as a "wingman," and though his Father had taught him there was no greater honor than to serve the House Ylisse, Gerome preferred to do so in a manner that involved a great deal more hitting things with axes and a great deal less groping.

Even behind his eyelids, Gerome could tell that the dim light went out, and he heard the shuffle of cloth as Inigo settled into his sheets. The prince's breathing was hitching and labored, as if he was incredibly worked up but trying desperately to calm himself. Gerome began to feel extremely uncomfortable. This was exactly the reason why he didn't share tents.

It wasn't until the sound of ragged hiccupping started overcoming the quick breathing that Gerome realized that Inigo wasn't, in fact, jerking off. The honk of a blown nose confirmed it-- Inigo was _crying_.

"Gods," whispered Inigo, and Gerome's ears only barely picked up on a quiet whimper. If it hadn't been so unexpected, Gerome would've thought he was imagining things. "Gods, why am I so _useless_?"

His prayer devolved into stifled sobs, the kind that cut off halfway through as Inigo tried to swallow them back. The outburst of despair felt incredibly private, and discomfort settled into Gerome's stomach-- it was clear that nobody was meant to witness this, the vulnerability of his tears, and Gerome had violated that sanctity. Long after Inigo's whimpers and quiet sobbing faded into even breathing and the embrace of sleep, Gerome lay awake and steeped in his guilt.

At least, he reminded himself, this sort of thing didn't happen every night.

* * *

 It wasn't the first time Gerome had been wrong about something... or some _one_.

One night of crying himself to sleep, Gerome could understand. The war had gotten to all of them, and even one as seemingly airheaded as Inigo had to have a moment of solemnity once in a while. He could, perhaps, even understand two nights, if Inigo had been having a particularly bad week... but every night for nearly ten days in a row was a stretch, no matter how dramatic Inigo might be.

The man went through handkerchiefs like Minerva went through her food supply, doing a batch of washing nearly every day for them.

"You know how it is," Inigo had casually informed him over morning washing, making lewd jerking motions with his hand.

Gerome almost couldn't believe that Inigo was trying to pass off an hour of crying as an hour of masturbation... but then he remembered it was still Inigo, the philanderer prince. He bit back abruptly, "No, I'm **quite** sure I don't."

"Mmmm, tisk tisk, Gerome," Inigo drawled with a joking wink. Perhaps it was just Gerome's imagination, but his words seemed to take on a hollow ring. "That can't be good for you... it's far better to let it out than to let it build up."

Gerome's replied with a noncommital grunt, and it wasn't until later that he realized Inigo didn't mean it as a sexual innuendo.

He was referring to his tears. Inigo thought it was better for him to cry it all away than to keep it inside.

Gerome realized with a sinking feeling that crying himself to sleep was _habitual_ for Inigo.

Each night that passed weighed heavily on Gerome's conscience. His Father's line had kept the secrets of the Exalted for generations, just as his Mother had once kept the secrets of the House Virion.

But those were secrets told in trust, not secrets spied from the next bedroll over, practically wrested from their privacy. He could hardly stand by and let an ally, however annoying he may be, weep himself to sleep each night-- and yet Gerome had no choice, unless he wanted to let Inigo know that he'd been unintnetionally listening in on his crying sessions.

It was a trying corundum, but one that he realized very quickly had a simple solution.

Inigo only cried when he thought he was alone, or as good as. All Gerome had to do was stop pretending to be asleep.

For the first time in a long time, Gerome was sitting up in his tent, finally getting back to work on his latest non-combat project. If he wanted Minerva to keep warm in battle, after all, he'd have to finish up the wool sweater he was knitting her... though he'd deny a thousand times over using his Father-But-Not-Father's "Papa's Pride and Joy" template to make it.

Inigo trudged in at his usual time, looking more haggard than Gerome had ever seen him in daylight. He walked the way a man carrying a great burden walked, and as he wiped his eyes, Gerome watched a peach-colored smear come onto Inigo's sleeve. A single glance at Inigo's face revealed that one eye now carried a dark circle under it, and Gerome only just knew enough about make-up to realize it was a concealing lotion. He internally cringed.

"Inigo," he said, if only to ensure that the prince wouldn't just ignore him and start crying anyways.

Inigo jumped and hurriedly made himself perkier, "G-Gerome! Ahaha, fancy meeting you here..."

"This is my tent," Gerome raised an eyebrow, though nobody could tell beneath the mask. It was the thought that counted, anyways. "I live here."

"Oh, um, right, I almost forgot," Inigo smiled in a manner that probably tried to look charming, but came across to Gerome only as false. "It's just that you're usually asleep by this time... aren't you?"

"... maybe," Gerome answered noncommittally, his fingers working quickly as he arranged the cable pattern of this particular part.

"O... kay," Inigo at last gave in. He sat on his bedroll and began fiddling with one of his several dozen handkerchiefs as he awkwardly waited for Gerome to go to sleep.

Gerome continued knitting, pulling another skien of yarn from his formidable supply. He would have dyed the sweater as black as the night itself, but alas, it was far too expensive to obtain enough dye for a wyvern-sized sweater. Minerva would still be just as cute in a creamy white sweater, though, perhaps with black and red sewn-in accents. Or perhaps gray and blue-- Gerome hadn't decided yet.

And Inigo... Inigo could hardly go to sleep without a good cry first. It had come to the point where his crying ritual was his body's message to allow himself to fall asleep. But the longer he watched Gerome knit, the more he realized that the Wyvern Knight was nowhere near stopping. He'd inherited, it seemed, his mother's propensity for clothwork and his father's diligence. It seemed incredibly likely that Gerome would knit all night.

"So, uh, hey," Inigo began awkwardly. He made a vague jerking motion with his hand, though it was clear his heart wasn't really in the lie. "I can't sleep properly without my 'nightly ritual'... if you know what I mean. And I can't really do that if you're here and awake."

"Listen," Gerome shot him a frown. "I'm not moving this wyvern-sized sweater somewhere else so you can have your 'nightly ritual.'"

"I--" Inigo began to protest, but then the light of argument dimmed from his eyes. "Okay."

He curled up on his cot and tried to go to sleep.

* * *

 Inigo didn't seem to be sleeping quite as much, since he kept trying to wait up for Gerome to fall asleep first, but he hadn't cried himself to sleep in nearly a week, so Gerome counted it as a success.

He was certain that if his Real Father and Real Mother knew of how he was aiding his liege, they would be proud of him-- though, he reminded himself, it was hardly his place to say. The right tool for the right job, after all, and he wasn't exactly the best at emotional comfort. Considering, however, that he was a man of few words and many stabs, he'd done fairly well at ceasing Inigo's upsets.

"... I think Frederick's morning training sessions are splendid," Chrom beamed at Gerome's Father-But-Not-Father, touching an armored arm, and Gerome rolled his eyes (though, of course, nobody saw). There was such a thing as devotion to one's feudal lord... but there, too, was obsession with it. And far, far beyond obsession was Frederick.

"Milord, I only wish I could do more," Frederick replied, pride swelling in his chest. Gerome snorted and returned to dicing onions. The mask he wore was more than sufficient protection against their eye-watering powers, he told himself, even though his eyes stung.

"... though, I'm afraid, there's not much more to do," Cherche added, setting down another dish to be served at dinner. "Even brigands are less active in the winter. I suppose Minerva and I will have to content ourselves with knitting scarves and clearing snow-blown roads."

"You've done more than enough," Chrom shook his head, eying his son who was idly stirring soup. He chuckled good-naturedly, "I just wish that some of the others would practice a similar diligence, even if just for training."

Inigo's fist clenched tightly around the ladle, and he stirred a little faster.

"I seek to always fill my time with productivity, milord," Frederick nodded solemnly.

"So do I," joked Inigo weakly. "If I could only find someone to produce _with_."

Nobody laughed.

"Inigo!" Frederick exclaimed, aghast. "That is hardly proper language for a Prince of Ylisse to be using!"

The wavering smile fell from his face completely, "But I--"

"No buts about it!" Frederick set his foot down, and the table shook hard enough that several plates nearly fell off it. Cherche tidily caught the plates before anything could happen, sighing and waiting patiently for him to finish with his tantrum. "I think it's high time you learned the responsibility befitting your station! What would the Chrom and Olivia of your timeline think, watching you gallivant about now without a care in the world? What do you suppose your ancestors would think of how carelessly you take your training?"

"Um, er, Frederick..." Olivia piped up, picking a fallen apple from the floor. "T-that's a bit of a harsh way of putting it... ah, it would be nice to train together, but..."

"N-no, mom, Sir Frederick's right," Inigo began to blink his eyes rapidly, tears budding at the corners of his eyes. "I-it was a bit of an off-color joke..."

He sniffled a bit and crud, thought Gerome, he was about to cry again. Hot tears began to roll down Inigo's cheeks and he wiped them away with one of his ever-present handkerchiefs.

"I'm-- I need to go," Inigo choked out, fleeing from the dining tent and running for his tent.

Shit. Gerome hadn't realized before, but he hadn't fixed the problem... only delayed it. And, gods, Inigo might have laughed it off before with no issue, but he hadn't cried in _days_. The discomfort in his chest grew weightier, and before he knew it, he was tearing off his apron and running after him.

"Got to go," he grunted as an excuse when he passed by his Father-But-Not Father. "Forgot something."

There were perhaps a few minutes of awkward silence before Lucina walked in, carrying a sack of cornmeal in each arm.

"Um," she looked around, noting that both her brother and Gerome were missing. "What's going on here?"

Chrom furrowed his brows, "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Frederick, why is it inappropriate for royalty to talk about producing? I listen to people talk about grain production all the time."

"I will inform you when you're older, milord," Frederick answered, the same answer he'd been giving Chrom for the past ten years.

Cherche and Olivia exchanged a Look. It was a Look shared amongst all the ladies of the camp, one that was unmistakable in its meaning:

" _I can't believe I **married** that._ "

* * *

 "Inigo--" Gerome sputtered, rounding the corner of the barracks as he attempted to catch up to the mercenary. Perhaps he'd spent too much time riding on Minerva, if he was _this_ slow on his feet... "Inigo!"

The Wyvern Knight leaned over and took a breath for a second, trying to discern where, exactly, Inigo had run off. It was hard to concentrate, though, especially with that damnable perfume still filling his nose. Gerome closed his eyes and took a deep breath to rid himself of the budding headache.

Wait. The perfume... it was stronger in one direction than the other, he thought, and though it embarrassed him to do so, he followed the smell of roses all the way back to their shared tent.

"What are you doing?" Gerome demanded, breezing into the tent with a dramatic tentflap. It was hardly slamming a door open, but Gerome had to admit the woosh of fabric was growing on him.

"N-nothing," Inigo sniffled, wiping away his tears with the handkerchief in his left hand and blowing his nose with the one in his right. Already, a handful of them littered the floor near his bedroll. "I-I was just reminded of being rejected for a dinner date with a fair maiden, that's all."

"And I suppose nearly every night for two weeks' of crying, then, was all for the same dinner date?" Gerome frowned.

"I--" the kerchief in Inigo's right hand fell out from shock. "You _saw_ that?"

"No," Gerome answered. "I _heard_ it."

Inigo's crying began anew, "Gods, you must think I'm so weak... it's bad enough half the camp had to see me like this, and now you too!"

"Sorry," Gerome winced, not entirely sure how to comfort him-- or, indeed, if he was consolable at all. "I... I tried to get you to sleep before you, um..."

"Gerome, you're such a-- such a dick..." Inigo sobbed between words, almost incomprehensible. "Why would you _do_ that to me??"

"I just... I thought it would be better if you didn't cry yourself to sleep every night?" Gerome attempted to explain, not certain how he could express how much he hated to see Inigo-- carefree, upbeat Inigo-- in tears. At last, he sighed, "I don't know. I'm sorry, all right?"

"N-no," Inigo hiccuped, trying to suppress his crying long enough to answer. "It's not-- it's not all right. Especially because it's you. How _could_ you, Gerome?"

"I know. It was wrong," Gerome ached to give comfort, but knew not what to do. He awkwardly patted Inigo's shoulder. "I didn't intend to listen in, but I didn't know how to tell you..."

"You, of all people, understand it," Inigo wiped his eyes with a fresh handkerchief. "Cause for me... it's the same as if someone took off your mask, and everything behind it just came spilling out. And everything you wanted to keep separate isn't separate anymore, and everyone can see everything..."

And, with horror, Gerome knew exactly what he was talking about. The smiles, the carefree attitude, the obscene flirting... it was all just a cover so people wouldn't get close enough to see the real pain inside, just the same way his own mask concealed his own vulnerability and weaknesses (and his balding, but that was an entirely different matter). He touched the thing, practically second nature to wear on his face by now, and decisively pulled it off.

"There. Off," Gerome squinted in the light of their tent. Was everything always so bright? "An equal exchange, if you'll accept it. Better now?"

Stunned into silence, Inigo's sobs fell to hiccups and he managed to pause long enough to stutter out, "A... a little bit. K-kinda."

He grabbed another handful of kerchiefs and blew his nose in them, still teary-eyed but far less hysterical. Gerome, not entirely sure what to do, stood in silence beside him, carefully studying his own feet. Looking at things felt so... strange without his mask. He couldn't feel more naked unless he actually undressed.

"Er... are you okay?" Gerome finally asked once Inigo seemed to have quieted into shuddering breaths. He rubbed his hand in circles over Inigo's back, keeping an arm's distance between them and averting his eyes. This type of thing was supposed to be comforting... right?

"Y-yeah... sorry you had to see me like this... I'm a real mess," Inigo wiped his face again, and he'd be lying if he said the hand on his back didn't make him feel a little better-- incredibly awkward, yes, but better He tried to laugh, "Haha... it's a good thing your mask-off doesn't make you look god awful like mine does... I have a hard enough time getting a date when I'm not crying everywhere. Bet nobody would go out with me if they ever saw me like this..."

The motions Gerome circled onto Inigo's back stopped abruptly, and perhaps for the fist time, he looked at Inigo-- _really_ looked. The man before him was a far cry from the debonair he pretended to be, flawlessly dressed and always lighthearted. Somehow, though, this Inigo, the real one, was more appealing by far... and the way he tried to laugh off his insecurities even when he was in tears upset Gerome deeply.

"I would," he blurted out.

"You... would _**what**_?" Inigo asked in shock.

"I would go out with you," Gerome leaned in. That was how kissing was supposed to go, wasn't it? "Regardless of whether I've seen you cry or not."

"W-wait," Inigo pressed a shaky hand to Gerome's mouth. "D-don't... please."

"Sorry," Gerome backed away, his giddy heart falling. "It was presumptuous of me to--"

"No, I want to!" Inigo insisted, leaning closer to Gerome's warmth. "I just... well, I'm all gross now. I probably taste like tears and snot... and our first kiss together deserves better than that."

Gerome sighed and held the hand that had stopped him in one of his own, "As you wish."

So, he took Inigo by the chin and, feeling a bit silly, kissed his forehead instead, little more than a gentle brush of lips against skin, as delicately as he would handle a bird's egg. It was worth it, though, to see a timid smile peering up at him through a veil of blue bangs, and maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

* * *

 And perhaps Inigo still cried himself to sleep, but he he cried himself to sleep in Gerome's arms, which was a lot better than crying alone. And perhaps an hour of weeping eventually turned into a half hour, then ten minutes, then nothing at all. And perhaps, even after the tent situation was fixed, they spoke in the night about their worries, their insecurities, the patches that made up their masks.

And perhaps it was okay that Gerome was secretly crying behind his mask, if only because Inigo was, too.

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody would like to know, Male Avatar (Hecarim) is Magic Asset/HP Flaw, and Female Avatar (Shivana) is Skill Asset/Luck Flaw.


End file.
